


Recover

by riffraffit



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2129091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riffraffit/pseuds/riffraffit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Jones is sent to the Austin mental hospital for his uncontrollable bouts of anger that begin to scare his mother. When he arrives, he's predictably angry and upset-- but when he meets other people stuck here in the same predicament, his stubborn mindset is the only thing keeping him from getting better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm making them all teenagers in this fic? Not sure, but it seems to be what I'm best at. Ahhh. It just feels like adults wouldn't-- ahghhhghgh. so, no age differences probably. i'm all jumbled up. please bear with me? sorry. thank you for reading.

 He didn’t need to fucking be here. That was the first thing he knew about his new home—the therapist didn’t know what he was talking about. Michael was a perfectly normal teen who had perfectly normal aggressions—none of this anger management bullshit.

Michael was here because he told his therapist he wanted to rip a kid’s throat out. Again. He was threatening violence, and Dr. _Jerkoff_ had issues with that. He’d been in enough fights where he’d known he could do a lot of damage to be completely honest. Sometimes he just wanted to kill somebody, or just fuck ‘em up. He slept with a pocket knife beside his bed and carried it with him wherever he went, just in case he ever got a real reason to do just that.

So when he was stripped of his worldly freedoms in the Austin Mental Hospital as his mom drove away crying, he _really_ wanted to fucking kill someone.

They took his knife, and his belt, and even his goddamn shoelaces—they gave him some bullshit slippers and a pair of itchy sweatpants in replacement to his jeans. Because we can’t have you hurting yourself, fuckboy, we can’t have you trying to choke down the metal bits in those nice blue-jeans and killing yourself. That would be damaging to our nice little reputation.

The doctors talked to him as he was admitted, asking about his file and explaining the daily grind—he knew he’d be getting used to it. He’d only have to be here two weeks, and then he could go home and stab the drywall behind his door with the pocketknife again. He could threaten somebody over X-box live and nobody would give a damn.

Basically, breakfast is at eight, lunch is at noon, and dinner is at six. Everyone must report to every mealtime. They take your utensils back at the door so you can’t hide them in your room. If you’re checked off for an eating disorder (fuck that bullshit forever) you’ll be accompanied by someone for every meal, to make sure you’re eating. You can spend time in your room or in the game room. Curfew is at nine thirty.

All of that sounded so goddamn awful in the worst of ways. Getting up at eight? Fuck, he _stayed_ up until eight when he was at home. Curfew at nine thirty? This hospital felt more like A) a prison or B) an old folks’ home. Michael could feel the metaphorical wrinkles appearing on his face. _Fuck this shit._

Then he was escorted to his room, and the door was shut, and there he was in the blandest space ever. Two beds, one on each side of the room, white walls, white carpet floor that wasn’t soft at all. The drywall had no holes in it like his room. He almost wanted to change that so it’d feel more familiar.

There was a kid with black hair sitting on one of the beds. He was sitting there with a stress ball in his hands, shifting it back and forth and squishing it periodically.

Michael looked at him expectantly, but he kept his dark eyes downcast at the stress ball. What kind of fucking roommate doesn’t even say hello? How was he gonna live with this asshole for two shitty, miserable weeks if he doesn’t even talk? Michael swore, he was gonna punch him right in the nose, break those shitty glasses on his face—

“Hey _asshole,_ what’s your problem?” Michael snarled, dropping his duffel bag (full of nothing but video game t-shirts and a single pair of shorts, since everything else had been fucking _confiscated_ ).

The kid flinched at the words and squished the stress ball harder, but otherwise didn’t react. Michael huffed, rolling onto the other bed and facing the wall. He let his thoughts muddle together, mixing to become some entity of rage—he was just _boiling._

One. He’s in a mental hospital that he doesn’t need to be in. He’s fine. Two. His mother drove off all upset and acted like it was her fault, acted like there was something wrong with Michael. What a _fucking dramaqueen._ He’s fine, dammit! Three. Curfew. Four. His roommate was infuriating him and he hasn’t even _done anything_ yet.

It kinda dawned on Michael that maybe he was being a little harsh on the guy. If you greet somebody like that they’re probably not gonna take to you well.

Fuck that, though. He was _not_ apologizing. There’s nothing wrong with being pushy when you’re upset, not in Michael’s world.

He stared at the wall for god knows how long, just steaming from the ears, until he heard the door open. He expected it to be a nurse or something telling the two roommates it was time for dinner, but instead, a boy with sleepy blue eyes and a face full of stubble poked his head in the door. The guy looked moderately surprised to see him, but it didn’t show _that_ much—for god’s sake, his eyes were half-closed. How did he stay awake?

When Michael flipped over to look at the door, he noticed his roommate had looked away from his fucking piss-yellow stress ball for a minute to look at the visitor. The black haired kid was smiling now, for the first time doing something not attributed to a vegetable in front of Michael. “Geoff,” He said, obviously referring to the guy at the door.

Geoff spoke. “Ray, we’re going down to the cafeteria. Come on.” His voice was rough, and it kinda irked Michael that he would just blow him off like that. _Ray_ wasn’t the only one in the room, dickwad.

Before he could get a word in, Ray slipped off the bed, dropping the stress ball onto the mattress and adjusting his purple hoodie. He avoided eye contact with both Michael and blue-eyes here, sleeves drawn up over his hands and shoved in his pockets. He had a slouched, defensive posture as he left the room. Ray didn’t say anything in the hall, but Michael heard other people talking, as if they’d been waiting for him to come out.

God damn, everybody here was fucking crazy. He didn’t ask to be here, holy shit. Dealing with this roommate was gonna be tough if all he did was play with that stress ball and breathe.

Michael supposed it was time for him to go to the cafeteria, too. He didn’t know how strict the regulations were yet, but he guessed he would be familiar with the statement “fashionably late” in respect to meals. Fuck that scheduled bullshit, Michael eats when Michael’s hungry.

A nurse did stop in to get him, and he reluctantly followed her to the room where maybe thirty people were sitting scattered around at like, fifteen tables. A couple tables only had one or two people at them, while others were full. In all, the room was a quiet rumble of conversation.

Michael walked toward the counter to get his food—it ended up being a mound of disgusting mashed potatoes and gravy, and some corn. Fuck that, not eating that. Nope.

His eyes scanned over the room, looking for someone interesting to sit with. Someone who hopefully wouldn’t make him want to commit suicide via samurai sword to the gut. His eyes settled on a kid who looked mildly bored, by himself at a corner table. His chin was propped on his hand, forearm braced on the table. He sat down with exaggerated confidence, his tray clacking against the table. “Hey. What’s your name?”

The boy looked at him strangely for a minute, then slowly replied, “Forward, huh? I’m Ryan.” He prodded at his mashed potatoes with a plastic fork.

“I’m Michael.”

The silence stretched between them for a moment, before Ryan spoke again. “Y’know, it’s probably not a good idea to take that seat.”

A flare of anger shot up in Michael. “Why the hell not? It was open, it’s a perfectly good seat. What the fuck, man.” He growled, gripping his package of plastic utensils, still plastic wrapped.

“It’s Jack’s seat. And he’s not gonna react well to… erm, he doesn’t handle change well.” Ryan gave him a look, like he was ready for Michael to start screaming at him openly.

Michael had more vinegar to share, however, and shot back—“Who’s Jack, your shitty imaginary friend? Where else can’t I sit, or god forbid I piss off the whole imaginary gang?”

“He’s—He’s right behind you.” Michael went to sneer at him and shoot back another reply, but he followed the guy’s gaze up and around, meeting the eyes of a redhead who was, in fact, standing behind him.

“Get up. You’ll give him a fucking anxiety attack, just get up.” Ryan snapped, his voice losing the friendly tone it had before. Jack was shuffling behind him still, clenching and unclenching his hands. He seemed frozen to that spot—unable to sit anywhere else without freaking. Michael stubbornly stayed, giving the panicking Jack a disgusted look. This whole hospital business was just a freak show. There was nothing wrong with Michael—they said some bullshit to his mom like, intermittent explosive disorder, but Michael knew it was fake as hell. Whatever.

 He’d lost himself in that thought just before two tattooed hands were gripping his hoodie and yanking him roughly out of the seat. Someone else pushed his lunch tray out of the way, and Michael recognized a pissed off blue-eyed kid, from the room earlier—Geoff. He pushed at Geoff’s chest, trying to at least pry the fingers off his shirt, away from his throat.

“What’s your problem, dickhead? Can’t respect somebody’s space?” The guy snarled.

“What the fuck, dude, it’s just a goddamn chair! There’s a hundred in this room, jesus!” Michael tried to hit Geoff off of him, but to no avail.

The guy looked beyond pissed. “It’s OCD, you insensitive fuck! This aint strawberry fields, asshole!” His hands were gripped so tightly around Michael’s shirt they were bunching it up and nearly choking him. “You’re not in Kansas anymore; you’re surrounded by people who need _help._ ”

A staff member was rushing over to the two of them already, but Michael glanced back at Jack, who was looking down ashamedly, pushing his food into some kind of formation, while a concerned-looking Ryan tried to talk to him. He didn’t get much more of a look before the nurse was pulling Geoff off of him, and whisking the guy out of the lunchroom. He flipped Michael off and yelled profanities all the way out.

Another staff member was asking him if he was alright, and he just told them to go away. Just in those simple terms, which was unusual for him. He’d normally tell them off in a much less pleasant way, like _fuck off_. He couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just do that anyways.

Michael looked back to the table where Ryan was sitting, where his food was still on the table, and saw how upset Ray looked. Maybe it was that.

He felt… a little bad about that. About getting Geoff dragged out of the lunchroom. About being a problem, and making everyone upset. About being just a disruption in everyone’s lives. But seriously, fuck apologies. That stuff was for weak motherfuckers—

He kept glancing towards the table again, wanting to go get his food but Jack and Ray and Ryan and that other kid were all there—

“Get over here. Just shut the fuck up and eat, staff will force you to if you don’t.” Ryan said, noticing his discomfort.

That’s how Michael ended up at the lunch table with four guys, all of whom were picking at their gross mashed potatoes, unentertained. Michael wondered if the meals were always like this. He knew Ray, his roommate. Well, he didn’t know him, but he knew _of_ him. Which he could say the same for everyone—Jack and Ryan, at least. He knew their names. He knew the sight of Jack lining up his tray with the edge of the table perfectly. The fourth guy—well, he didn’t know.

He was tall and thin, with wild, straw-colored hair. He sat next to Ryan, across from Ray. Michael was at the head of the table—looking at him across Ryan’s tray awkwardly.

The guy met his gaze, and he didn’t even have to ask for his name—“I’m Gavin. It’s Gavin Free, nice to meet you. Not nice, I mean, but I’m meeting you.” He had a dumb British accent that wrapped around his syllables like caramel on an apple.    

What a statement that was. Michael snarled. “Not nice?”

“You don’t seem very friendly, jeez. Respect somebody’s seat when it’s theirs, holy hell.”

Michael grumbled, but didn’t say anything, if only to escape hearing more of the British fucker’s dumb mouth-words. _Fuuuuuck._ This sucked more than he thought it would.

They all ate in silence for a while, trying to pick at their food and make it look like they ate more than they actually did. Jack was eating more than anyone else—obviously he was hungry. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone while he did so, though, and they almost avoided looking at him—meal time was probably gonna be the weirdest time of day in the coming weeks.

Ryan was almost glaring at Gavin’s food. Michael wondered for a second if he was still hungry after eating his own. Was it that he wanted the food or that he wanted Gavin to eat—but that question was answered as he said, “Gavin.”

Gavin’s eyes snapped up to the brunet, rolling fluidly in an exaggerated fluid movement. “Not hungry. Nope.”

“ _Gavin._ ” Ryan growled, not taking it at all. “You’re gonna eat or we’re gonna sit here until Geoff comes back with the staff member.”

The brit indignantly stabbed his fork into the potatoes. “ _Not hungry, you pleb._ ”

Ryan huffed, turning to Ray. “I guess we’re here to stay. I’m not leaving until Gavin eats something.”

Michael’s brows furrowed in irritation. This was a fucking drama show. It was clear now that Gavin was here for some stupid teen-girl eating disorder and Ryan was not having it—Ray and Jack sat back, having finished what they were eating/planning to eat. Ray hadn’t finished all of it, but he just fiddled with a loose string on his purple hoodie, so it was pretty clear he wasn’t eating anymore.

The funny thing was, though, Michael didn’t want to eat either. His stomach didn’t settle right—he was probably just too angry. Sometimes he would forget to take care of himself at home—be too busy blasting music and playing Halo to eat or shower for a couple days. This move to the hospital was jarring—he was gonna be bored out of his mind, without his X-box or his laptop. God, it pissed him the hell off.

He looked back up at Ryan and Gavin, who were still staring daggers at each other. Ryan had finished his food, and Gavin still hadn’t touched his.

Fuck it, he wasn’t staying for this sissy-fest. Fuck this.

Standing up abruptly, he felt that familiar surge of rage come over him, tingling in his spine and boiling his blood. He shoved his tray down the table as hard as he could, hitting Ray’s and Jack’s trays, those in turn hitting Ryan’s and Gavin’s sending a bunch of stuff—trays, utensils, food— clattering to the ground.

The destruction brought him the same kind of joy stabbing his drywall did at home.

However, four faces were turned to face him now, in differing stages of fright, shock, and anger. Ray had flinched so hard Michael was worried he hurt himself, but he didn’t stay to find out.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the lunchroom. He was pleasantly surprised when nobody tried to stop him.

 

* * *

 

 

There was no place to really go, besides his room again. So he went back there. He pulled back the white bed sheet and got under it, hunching his shoulders and facing the wall.

He really _really_ wished he had his headphones right now. Or at least _something_ to take away this stupid boredom. He remembered the lady telling him about the game room, but she said there were stupid things like air hockey and pinball in there and nobody has time for that shit. He didn’t play well with others, it was that simple. He kinda proved that when he blew a gasket over a fight two _other_ people were having. Not even his fight—and he ran out like a goddamn fool.

There was no fucking way in hell he was going to that game room now, because the moment he did, everybody would clear a path. He’d already made his point of being the angry, nasty kid with violent impulses. Right.

Maybe his mom was right. Maybe he wasn’t just angry—it could actually be this stupid Intermittent Explosive bullshit. Maybe—

No. No, no no. Nope. Fuck that. You’re fine, Michael, you can’t contradict what you’ve said this whole time. Just last these two weeks and you can live your life happily. Not in a mental hospital. You can have your Glitch Mob, your Chromeo, your Daft Punk and your Five Finger Death Punch. And your knife, to stab whatever you please.

His therapist came into the room to talk to him about the scene in the lunchroom. He just tuned the bitch out. Didn’t respond in the slightest. Can’t get shit from me, Dr. Fuckall. She talked at him—most of which he didn’t remember—for probably 40 minutes, but it felt like hours. Just _get away from me._ Holy fuck.

When she left, Michael slept. The whole day of being so wound up had him exhausted—but the con of going to bed so early was waking up in the middle of the night. At home he usually got three or four good hours a night—not very much on any given day.

So going to bed at eight o’ clock made him wake up at what was probably around two AM. He didn’t have a digital clock, and the wall clock was lit too dimly for him to be able to read it.

The only light was faintly shining from under the door—the hallway was still lit with warm yellow light, bathing the carpet in front of the door with streams of it. He guessed the nurse must have turned the light off whenever curfew happened—nine thirty. Michael’s eyes started to adjust, and he could see the white blankets in the darkness. He saw the end of the bedframe, the shape of his bag against the wall at the foot of the bed. He could see the rug on the floor between his bed and Ray’s, and—he could see Ray, too.

The boy wasn’t asleep. He was sitting in the same pose he’d been in when Michael arrived here—shifting the stress ball from hand to hand, squishing it, right hand. Squishing it, left hand. Right hand. Left hand.

Michael was sitting up now, looking over at the unresponsive boy. “Hey.” His voice sounded too loud.

Ray didn’t say anything. Right hand. Left hand.

Michael guessed Ray didn’t like him, as he’d kind of done every single thing wrong that day. Like, every possible thing. So the next thing that left his lips was, “I’m sorry about today. I kinda… came off wrong.” Fuck, Michael, why do you only have feelings at two in the morning?

Ray looked up at him, but kept silent. Right hand.

“I-I mean, I really fucked it up. I’m sorry. You’re Ray, right? I’m Michael.” Fuck, fuck. What are you doing, asshole? Why are you going all soft? You could have just done the two weeks without caving on the first night like a pussy, in true Michael fashion.

Left hand. “Yea, I’m Ray.” Right hand.

“Err, is it bad to ask what you’re here for? Or am I allowed to do that?”

Ray stopped squishing the stress ball. It was eerie to see Ray completely unmoving. “Only if you tell me about you.”

“I’ve…” Michael gulped. Was he gonna say what he believed? Or what the doctor told him? “It’s Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Like… fucking crazy anger management shit.”

Ray didn’t look fazed. “Oh,” Was all he said, before continuing. “But tell me about _you,_ not about why you’re here.”

That threw him for a loop. But he regained his composure quickly—“Well, I’m from New Jersey. My mom moved us down here when she got a new job. And I’ve been here for like… two years, in Austin.” Ray started to shift the stress ball again, nodding to indicate he was listening to Michael without making eye contact—it was pretty clear Ray wasn’t big on eye contact.

“I can’t really think of anything to say. I like video games a lot?” Michael said tentatively, but that seemed to light up Ray’s eyes.

He didn’t really jump up or do anything, but Michael could see it in Ray’s eyes—he was excited “Dude, I _love_ video games. What are your favorites?”

“Well, I like Halo and Fallout a lot. Assassin’s Creed and Titanfall, too.” Ray actually smiled at him, then.

“Which Halo game is your favorite?” He demanded.

“Definitely Halo 3. Can’t beat it.”

“Hell yes! Someone who knows what he’s talking about! I’m glad you’re not one of those next-gen assholes who swear by Halo 4 or anything.”

“Nah, couldn’t be. At least most of the twelve year olds stay off the Halo 3 servers now, though.” Michael laughed.

“Look, I accept your apology for today. A-and I can tell you what I’m here for, if you really want.” He set the stress ball down on the bed, sitting back against the wall and stuffing his sleeve-covered hands in the big pocket of his hoodie.

Michael shrugged. Of fucking course he wanted to know. “I’m curious. Can’t help it.”

“It’s social anxiety. A-and a couple more things. But mostly the anxiety.”

Michael could see that. Someone like Ray—who evidently played games a lot, who kept himself holed up in his room—he could see that happening. “Sorry dude.”

“Don’t be. I’ve gotta ask you—what’s your Gamerscore?”

“Err, like a hundred fifty thousand? Something like that.” Michael wondered why it mattered, since Gamerscore was never really that important to him. Achievements were nice, but not everything.

Ray didn’t say anything, just nodded. Michael felt a twinge of anger—Ray was deliberately not saying anything because he _knew_ he was better than Michael at gaming—and why would Michael give a fuck! Ha!

“What’s yours, then, if you’re so cocky?” He snarled, Ray still not making eye contact.

“When I left home it was four hundred twenty five thousand.”

Michael’s jaw dropped, anger flushing out and a bit of respect replacing it.

“ _Jesus,_ dude.”

“Thanks.” Ray took it as a compliment, and had a little smirk on his face. “You should get some more rest, man. No offense but you look like you but hit by a train.”

Michael wondered how far coming this lack of sleep was. He’d been depriving himself for so long—there was no real telling when he’d wake up.

“You should too, just stop playing with that stupid stress ball. What time is it, anyways?”

Ray shrugged. “It must be like… three o’ clock. Nothing too bad. I hate not having a window in our room.”

“Y-yeah. I wish we could at least see the sun from in here. Does anybody have a window, anyways?”

“Jack and Geoff have a window.”

“Oh.” Michael didn’t know what to say at the mention of Geoff. He was sorry about the confrontation they had, but he couldn’t handle any more apologies right now—he hated admitting he was wrong. There were a few minutes of silence after that. Not incredibly awkward silence, just plain and neutral silence. It was strange to have a moment of peace for a second. Ray had done a pretty good job at calming his rage down.

He laid down again, facing the wall. A wave of tiredness washed through him the same way the rage had before—he heard Ray talking again, for a moment. “Go to bed, man. I forgive you, alright. I’ll help smooth things over with the other guys. Just… be careful around us, okay?”

What did that mean…? Be careful around them? Be… _Careful…_ Michael fell asleep all at once, falling straight past dreaming and into that dark, black kind of sleep that he wouldn’t remember in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He refused to lie down on the couch in the therapist’s office like one of those asshole complaint-filled whiny patients. That would make him feel even more like there was something wrong with him. He fucking refused to admit that. Never in his fucking life would he say that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absolutely blown away by the positive feedback this story has gotten! You've motivated me to write more and write faster, so thank you! Keep sending comments, keep reading, please! If you want to hear about a certain character more, I'm totally open to that kind of suggestion! Thank you all so much!  
> Also, if someone draws fanart for this story I would love you so much??? I might draw some things but!! It could never compare!

When he did wake up, it was to someone shaking his shoulder. He swiped a hand through the air in their direction, attempting to ward them off, but they just kept shaking him awake. Growling, he sat up and blinked sleep out of his eyes to see a nurse standing there.

“Michael,” she said, “It’s eight o’ clock. It’s time for breakfast. You have a meeting with your therapist at three o’ clock today. Don’t forget, I’ll have to retrieve you if you’re not at his office at three.”

There was a suspended moment there, where he just sat there with her hand on his shoulder and breathed a bit. Waking up was fucking _hard_ when you sleep more than you expect yourself to. That was probably like… nine solid hours of sleep. So his mind was foggy and his memory a little hazy—he was trying to muster up the energy to tell her to _fuck off_ , but she just got up and said, “Remember, ten o’ clock. Just down the hall on your right,” The clicking of her heels across the floor was satisfying enough, then the door shut and he was all alone again. Well, that takes her out of Michael’s hair.

Ray seemed to have already left the room before he woke, he noticed. He was planning on just rolling back over and sleeping more, because what else was he going to do besides avoid eating breakfast anyways, but a creak of the door opening again caught his attention. When he looked over at it, his gaze met the eyes of that stupid British kid from yesterday. Gavin, he remembered.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing in my room?” Michael demanded, voice hardening despite being thick with grogginess. The kid was slinking in as if he was a fucking cat burglar stealing precious jewels—he looked ridiculous.

“I—I—this isn’t just your room, it’s Ray’s too!” He countered. He was fucking frozen in mid-stride like he was Swiper from Dora the goddamn Explorer. This was foolish.

“Yeah, asshole, and you’re not Ray either.” Michael threw the blankets off of him, feet settling on the side of the wooden bedframe as he sat on the mattress.

Gavin was frozen for a minute, as if that just condemned his whole stupid escapade, but replied lamely, “Er—R-Ray asked me to get something for him!” To be honest, Michael wasn’t sure if that was a lie or not.

It either proved itself true or the fucker started improvising when the grabbed the yellow stress ball off the bed and got ready to make his daring escape, but Michael wasn’t about to let that happen right now. He stood up just as Gavin turned from grabbing it, so they stood face to face in the small space between the beds.

Gavin was a lot taller than he was. That’s the first thing he noticed. The second was the shirt he was wearing—a graphic tee for the game _Burnout Paradise_ of all things. Apparently, Michael was much more intimidating, as the Brit started to lean back a bit to put space between them. “Does Ray do this often, send people to get things for him? He’s got working legs, he can get things himself.”

The guy shrugged. “I don’t know! He just said he wanted this, and I said I’d get it for him, j-just don’t worry about it, _jesus_!”

Michael scowled, looking Gavin straight in the eye and saying, “You just wanted to get away from the lunchroom, didn’t you.”

Gavin’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Michael saw him squish down on the stress ball. There was a beat, confirming Michael’s statement—the two of them looking tensely at each other’s faces. Gavin looked upset that Michael figured it out so quickly. Michael was still thinking how stupid that was—a guy like Gavin having a stupid eating disorder. He already looked like a goddamn beanpole, and if Michael was right, he probably was planning on keeping up on the starving himself. The Brit broke their eye contact, and then he turned, running out and leaving the door open.

Michael frowned. Somehow he didn’t feel good about making Gavin feel bad. Usually that was a pretty good pastime, to make people feel bad—but at this point the best option would be to go after him.

Throwing on some new shorts (the only other shorts he had, actually) and his shoes, he left the room and began the walk down to the cafeteria. The question was, though, would he sit with those people again? Had Ray smoothed things over yet? Jesus fuck, Michael, think these things through. The new question was, had he just fucked everything up with Gavin?

God, he was acting like this was school again. This was just two weeks. Michael, you already fucked it up by _giving a shit_ what these people think about you. Just go to the fucking lunchroom, who gives a damn.

His walk was short after that. His strides widened, and that angry confidence returned. The five of them were sitting down—Geoff was in the seat he was in the previous day. He decided not to mess with that, and got some food. It was just a cup of orange juice and two pancakes, with a sealed plastic container of syrup to pour on them. The woman at the door gave him some plastic utensils, checking him off on some list. It was probably so she knew how many to collect as he left—Jesus Christ, this pretty much _was_ a prison.

He sat on the opposite end of the table as Geoff, so he was facing him—He didn’t say anything as he sat down, just looked around at each of their expressions. Gavin, sitting to Michael’s left, had a dark expression, his arms crossed and his pancakes untouched. Ray, to his right, looked apprehensive, squishing his stress ball—maybe he _had_ actually talked to them already. Jack, on the other side of Ray, looked wary, almost, and Michael didn’t give anything away in his expression as their eyes met. Ryan, next to Gavin, had his face down in his arms on the table, apparently sleeping. His food was clearly picked at, but not finished.

Geoff just looked exhausted. “Hey. I see you’re up early today, dickhead.” His voice was biting with sarcasm.

“Geoff,” Ray cautioned.

The blue-eyed boy sighed, rubbing his sleepy eyes hard. “Sorry about yesterday. I was having a really bad day, alright?”

Gavin started, “Geoff’s got withdrawal symptoms really bad, he can’t help—”

“Shut the hell up! He doesn’t need to know, Gav.” Geoff snapped, his hands trembling where they were still poised to rub his eyes. His eyebrows were bunched together in a snap of anger, and Michael hadn’t noticed before that his whole body was trembling, really. He must be coming down from one hell of an addiction.

“No, no. It’s fine, asshole. Just don’t pop a vein losing it at captain Britain over here.” Michael blew him off. “Just what’s wrong with sleepy over here?” He gestured towards Ryan.

“Not asleep.” The brunet’s voice sounded.

“He’s not having a good day today, either.” Gavin said. “He’s on a low swing. Don’t worry your head about little Ryan.” He kept looking at Ryan, though, and the eventually sat up, revealing puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. He might’ve been crying earlier, but it was impossible to tell with the darkest circles he’d ever seen under Ryan’s eyes. Michael wondered just how he’d never noticed it before.

Michael actually ate his pancakes. He didn’t put any syrup on them, but they weren’t too hard on his stomach and he hadn’t eaten in a while anyways.

Ray had been looking over at Michael with that expression for a few minutes when he stated, “I talked to them about you. Jack said he forgives you, and Geoff said it’s okay.” His tone was low, and it was clear he didn’t want to be talking. Jack hadn’t said anything either, but was doing his best to keep eye contact.

Michael just looked down at the sleeves pulled over Ray’s hands and nodded. “Fine. It’s fine.”

“Why don’t you come down to the game room with us? At least for a while?” He kneaded the stress ball some more.

Yesterday Michael had said the game room was fucking dumb, and he didn’t want to play the sissy Pac-Man and pinball type shit, but this offer was kinda tempting to be honest. He wanted to see Ray play games and rock at them—at least, if he wasn’t lying about that Gamerscore. But he really just wanted to see Ray play _Xbox_ games. Not daycare playtime fuck-off games.

“Fuck no, I’d rather condemn myself to a vita than play on snotty pinball machines.” Michael wished he could go. But he couldn’t let himself. You can’t just let people in that fast. It’s not how things work. You’re already off to a rocky start, nobody but Ray wants you there anyways.

Ray looked disappointed, but not surprised.

He’d finished his food and stood up from the table, drawing the gaze of Geoff and Jack—everyone else was attentive to Gavin’s tray, observing the unassuming pancakes that sat there. Michael guessed he was leaving alone again, since nobody was leaving until Gavin ate or whatever—and he was right.

He all but threw the utensils at the lady as he went by, and stalked back to his room. There was fucking _nothing to do_ in this place. The plan white walls were bearing down on him and he felt like he needed to go outside for a while—but there was no recess in this place. Unless somebody from the outside came to _get him,_ and _took him somewhere_ , but he couldn’t leave on his own. And he was sure as hell that his mother wasn’t coming back until the visiting day, on Friday.

Michael was unfortunate enough to have been admitted on a fucking Saturday. Now it was Sunday, near furthest from Friday that he could get. What a drag.

Remembering what the nurse told him, he realized his meeting with the therapist was still hours away. He made it back to the room and slumped into his bed—a short nap couldn’t hurt. He set the slippers they’d issued him down on the floor and pulled the covers over him. The crispness of the sheets probably meant a nurse changed the bedding while he was at breakfast. It felt pretty nice on his skin, and he ran his fingertips over the edge of the sheet repeatedly.

He fell back asleep trying to work the anger out on it as softly as he could.

 

* * *

 

When he woke up, he was pleasantly surprised to have slept right through lunch—he didn’t want to go anyways. It was shocking that nobody had come in here and woken him up, but there were a lot of patients. Maybe they just forgot about him, the dumb fucks. Wouldn’t that be fortunate.

He still had an hour or two until his meeting with the therapist—Michael guessed he’d just spend it wandering around, getting the general layout of the place. He still didn’t know the location of anything except the goddamn lunchroom and his own room.

Stepping out into the hallway, he observed more than he’d seen before. There were two laminated paper nametags slid into a metal fixture on the wall by his door— _Ray Narvaez_ and _Michael Jones._ Well, he’d already learned something from this escapade: Ray’s last name.

His door was located at a corner—there was a hall that went straight, which was the way to the cafeteria, and one that went to the right. Michael could see more doors that looked like rooms on the left side of the hallway, but there was only one set of double doors on the right wall. Approaching it, he saw it was labelled _lounge._ The nurse hadn’t said anything about a lounge.

The windows on the top half of the doors were meshed with wire so they couldn’t be broken, and covered with black paper on the inside. He figured the worst thing they could do was kick him out, so he pushed one of them open just for the hell of it.

Inside, the room wasn’t too big. It was about twice as large as his room. There was maroon carpeting and beige walls, which was a big change from the bland white walls and hardwood floors of the hallway. There were a couple of bookshelves lined up, not very full, but probably just a bunch of shitty recommended reading. It’s not like they would ever have good books in a place like this. Two green couches occupied the left side of the room, while one large table with chairs around it took up the right half.

Only two people were in the lounge. A boy with brownish-blond hair was reading on one of the couches, his socked feet up on the cushions. He looked up as Michael came in, but quickly went back to his own reading. The second person was a nurse, who was sitting at a computer in the corner. She didn’t even react as Michael came in.

“Hey, what’s your name?” He said gruffly to the boy on the couch, suddenly awkward in the near-empty room. The door shut behind him with a loud _clack_.

The kid didn’t say anything at first. He just looked up at Michael, back at his book, and back up again. The expression on his face was a bit shocked—worried, maybe.

“Can you fucking talk, or is everybody in this place mute all of a sudden?” He recalled the quietness of Ray and Jack. This kid probably had some stupid pansy anxiety shit or something. The nurse turned in her chair, but when she saw Michael just standing there, she went back to the computer.

“Er, no. I-I can talk. Who are you?” Asked the boy, hiding behind his book a bit now.

“I’m Michael. Jesus, at least there’s somebody who gives me a straight goddamn answer around here.” He sat down on the couch by the guy’s feet, and watched as he pulled them back, retreating from Michael.

“I’m Kerry. I-I haven’t seen you here before.” His eyes shifted around, looking anywhere but Michael’s face.

“That’s actually not hard to believe, I’ve only met like six people. I checked in this fucking loony bin yesterday, after all.” Michael shrugged, looking at Kerry who was pushing himself as far into the corner of the couch as he could go. “It’s just a boring shithole so far.”

He was curious about this guy. Maybe he could actually get through a conversation without fucking it up or getting in a fight. Having a friend would make this two weeks more bearable, at least. The hostile side of him went a little lax—for some reason, it was important to be nice to Kerry. Something convinced him of this.

“How long have you been here?” He asked Kerry. “I mean, in this hospital.”

Kerry shrugged, tucking his legs up into near fetal position. “I guess… maybe two weeks. My stay is… long term, though.”

Michael shrugged. “I’m here for two weeks. Then I get to leave and go back home.” He didn’t realize how that would affect Kerry, honestly. The boy winced just the tiniest bit, eyes locked on his book. Michael realized how jealous he must feel that he got to leave—just how long term was Kerry’s stay? “Can I ask… why it’s long term? Why are you here?”

Kerry opened his mouth to speak, but only the clacking of the nurse on her keyboard could be heard for a moment. “Depression. Bad depression.” That was all he said.

Michael wanted to scoff. The ruthless part of him that reared its ugly head was saying that was fucking dumb. Depression was dumb. Anxiety was unreasonable and fucking stupid. Everyone here was a goddamn lunatic. However, the part of him that wanted to be friends with Kerry told him to stay quiet and speak with words as padded and censored as he could manage.

“Uh. I’ve got some questions, you might be able to help me with? See, I met a bunch of crazy assholes today and—uh, yesterday.” Kerry shut his book, still using it as a bit of a shield. Progress, alright, Michael. You’ve got this; he’s at least calm enough to close the book. “Do you know my roommate… uh, Ray Narvaez?”

Kerry nodded. “Yeah. He likes games, so do I.”

“Okay. Do you know why he’s here?” Michael pressed.

“Uh… anxiety. I think. I don’t know, I haven’t asked him.” Damn. That’s all Michael had gotten, too. Ray had said it was anxiety _among other things_. What the hell were those other things? Just anxiety couldn’t be enough to get you fucking admitted to a hospital. Especially when Ray was so easy to talk to… at least when there wasn’t many people around.

Michael was gonna press even further. “I sat with some people at mealtimes, too. Do you know… fuck, um—how about that guy Jack. The redhead.” It took him a minute to organize his thoughts. It sucked asking about them when he didn’t even know their last names. Kerry just nodded. “What’s he here for?”

“I think it’s just OCD… I always see him walking with the therapist who deals with that. And… it’s pretty obvious sometimes. And he rooms with Geoff. You know Geoff?”

Michael nodded, eyes rolling a bit. “Yeah. I got into a kind of like… not a fight? A skirmish. Fuck, I guess. Geoff got pissed at me, at least.”

Kerry looked moderately worried, pulling his book closer. “He’s here for addiction… He got admitted just a week ago, but apparently he’s been here before. Multiple times.”

“What kind of addiction?” He hoped it wasn’t anything too hard. Like Cocaine or Meth or something like that—that shit’s the addiction he wouldn’t wish on anybody. Unless they really pissed him off. Geoff had been confrontational, sure, but had he really pissed him off? He hadn’t been really any angrier than he would have been in the first place. Michael wasn’t really as famously easy to piss off as people said he was—he was simply always angry.

“Alcohol. The guy stank like liquor for days.” Michael shrugged when Kerry said that. It wasn’t like he had never drank—drinking was fucking _fun._ What few friends he had in high school were the stoners and the binge drinkers—they sometimes shared their fun with him until he pissed them off enough to tell him to go fuck himself. He might not have liked the people, but he liked the alcohol. It made the anger go away for a while. Maybe Geoff felt that.

“What about… huh. Do you know Ryan?”

Kerry nodded. “He’s my roommate.”

Michael’s eyes widened. Rooming with that guy sounded… fucking interesting. “You must know him pretty damn well then. How long has he…?”

“He was here before me. I don’t know.”

“What’s his deal? He was lying on the lunch table earlier,” Michael was confused about Ryan. He’d reacted so normally to him the first day—if not a bit more swearing and roughness, but the second day he was almost asleep and his eyes looked like he’d been crying. Had something happened or was this just… normal Ryan behavior?

“He doesn’t sleep. Not more than a few hours every couple days. I don’t catch him sleeping very often. He told me he has bipolar. His mood swings are wide apart so… it’s like two different versions of him. I guess.” Kerry shrugged.

“What are his moods like?” Michael wondered.

“Well, usually he’s kinda brash and I guess… blunt? He’s really smart, so… Then his other mood is just crashing. He gets emotional and has fits and… it’s not really fun to be around. I like to stay in the lounge. This is a good place for me here.”

The aggressive part of Michael was saying _god what a pussy. Stay around the fucking books, they’ll appreciate your pitiful addition to human kind._ But this hopeful part was still saying _be fucking nice to Kerry._ “I get it. I hate the lunchroom, and there’s nothing to fucking do in my room besides stare at the walls.” Michael agreed. The lounge was a nice room after all. And the only disruption remained the nurse in the corner—who wasn’t even disruptive beyond some key taps.

“I… don’t really wanna talk about this anymore. I don’t… know if they want me talking about this.” Kerry said nervously, opening the book again. _God damn it._

“Well, uh… you said you like games, right? What’s your Gamerscore?” He hoped to hell Kerry gamed on Xbox.

“Err… Just about thirty thousand. Not too crazy. You’ve talked to Ray, right?” Kerry laughed a bit at that. It was the first time Michael even saw him crack a smile. He suddenly felt a little bad for sitting down and just fucking _interrogating_ this kid. Maybe if he just spent a while talking to him instead…

“I have. His is fucking crazy, dude. I don’t know whether to believe him…”

 

* * *

 

They ended up talking for so long he forgot about his three o’ clock therapist meeting.

Apparently they couldn’t find him in his room and were sending nurses and people all around the building making sure he didn’t do something dumb—but they just found him in the lounge talking to Kerry.

He promised to come back later—or tomorrow—and talk again soon. The guy was actually really funny, if not a bit quiet, and was a good writer as Michael had found out. As well as he was at least somewhat knowledgeable about this place. Maybe he could help a bit when it came to getting to know the routine. And maybe he could help figure out more about Ryan Haywood.

When he was dragged into the therapist’s office, the whole fucking faculty was scolding him. This was restrictive and restraining and basically everything he fucking hated in the whole goddamn place. People kept grabbing him by the shoulder—weren’t they supposed to be careful about this kind of thing?—and pulling him, and he kept wrenching away from them until he was settled in the stupid white couch in the office.

He refused to lie down on the couch in the therapist’s office like one of those asshole complaint-filled whiny patients. That would make him feel even more like there was something wrong with him. He fucking refused to admit that. Never in his fucking life would he say that.

“Michael, your file says you’re showing symptoms of Intermittent Explosive Disorder. What do you say about this?” The therapist was asking him.

“I think it’s fucking bullshit. This is just fake shit to say I have a sucky personality.”

“Michael, please keep the swearing to a minimum while we’re in a session, is that okay?” The fucking therapist was asking him to stop _swearing_ now god _damn it._ This was like every other fucking stupid adult in his life.

“This is just bullshit.” He crossed his arms, not meeting the doctor’s eyes.

“Michael, I need you to tell me what’s making you so angry. What do you think sets off the episodes?”

 _Fuck you. Fuck off. I don’t need to get better because there’s nothing wrong._ “It’s not a thing that sets them off, I’m just sick of the shit people say and how _annoying_ it is when they fucking say it!” _I’m alluding to you, asshole._ He hoped the therapist picked that up, at least.

He heard the scratching of a pen on a clipboard and hoped the therapist choked on his dinner.

“Michael, you’re not going to get better if you don’t want to get better.”

His blood boiled. “There’s nothing to get better _from_.”

 

* * *

 

He forced himself to make the walk to the lunchroom for dinner. He forced himself to get in line for the shitty mashed potatoes again, and forced himself to sit down at the foot of the table across from Geoff again.

Five pairs of eyes were on him again, and he really wished he’d sat with Kerry.

His eyes were puffy from getting upset earlier. He didn’t want them to find out about the therapist appointment getting him so worked up, but they were gonna find out anyways. His face showed it clearly—red-tinted and swollen, with bloodshot eyes and bites on his lips. All he was doing was insisting that there was _nothing wrong,_ he’s a fucking _human being,_ Jesus Christ.

He knew they noticed, but none of them said anything. It was probably normal.

Ryan seemed to be back to normal. He was eating kinda quickly, scarfing down each bite like he was trying not to taste it. Michael watched him move in that mechanical fashion for a minute—then decided it was kind of a good idea. He followed suit, finishing his food in just a few minutes.

Gavin hadn’t touched his food, and looked queasy. Geoff very deliberately wasn’t looking at him. Something must’ve happened at lunch when Michael wasn’t there. He wondered how many meals this would keep happening. How long did they stay after meals to try and get Gavin to eat? He never wanted to stick around to find out, that shit sounded boring, and Gavin was a stupid asshole.

He realized he was starting to feel attached to these people. After the conversation with Kerry and everything that happened in the last day—he couldn’t let this change him. So he would leave when Gavin was being a dickhead.

Jack eventually reached his hand across the table and linked it with Geoff, as if to calm his irritation with Gavin. No words were spoken. Everyone else acted as if it were totally normal, but Michael was interested—they had their own ways of coping with things, and in this raw emotional state, he wished he had someone like that right now. He just wished.

Michael kept rubbing his sore eyes, blinking down at his tray. He looked around at the table, seeing them all with their individual unhappy expressions—nobody in this hospital was happy. Not ever.

He picked up his tray and threw his utensils at the lady again when he went out. He was fucking going to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Later, Ray tried to talk to him again, but he kept his back facing the other boy. He didn’t feel fucking bad about it. If he wasn’t in the mood to talk, he just didn’t talk. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He hardly slept; instead he let himself simmer over what the therapist had told him.

He felt guilty.

Michael’s mother was saying there was something wrong, the professionals were saying it, everyone here in this whole building could say now _‘That kid has fucking anger issues.’_ He kept telling himself they had to be wrong; it had always been this way. Stabbing holes in his drywall, screaming at idiot twelve year olds online, drinking away the feelings. This was just _normal_ for him. What it had taken him far too long to realize though, was that for everyone else it was _violent._

Just how foul had he become? What if he’d been wrong this whole time?

Michael realized he was crying so late that he was holding back sobs by the time he was fully conscious of it. Lying on his left side, facing the wall, his shoulders hitched and he rocked with the wave of tears. He was fucking shaking, shuddering, losing it. He couldn’t see through the tears in the darkness—shapes blurred into one, and without his glasses, everything was fucking blurry anyways. Losing his grounding, losing control, he cried harder.

Fingers carded their way through Michael’s hair. “Shhhhh, it’s okay. Quiet, it’s okay.”

“N- _n-nooo_. N-no.” He hissed through his clenched teeth and a knot in his throat. Who was… who—Ray. Ray’s hand, that’s what it was—it pulled through his curls again, his other hand settling on Michael’s shoulder.

He reached out, grabbing that wrist, as Ray reeled him back into reality.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait! School has started for me and I'm stressed as hell already. I hope you like the chapter! Thank you all for the nice comments! I read them all even if I don't reply :) thank you for all the amazing feedback on this story

Everyone had finished eating breakfast at this time, and basically it started the bullshit staring contest everyone was simultaneously having with Gavin. Well, everyone except Ryan today, who was still in his lower mood and laid flat on the table once more. Breakfast was, evidently, his least favorite time of day. Despite that, he’d finished quite a bit of his food. Michael himself had been ravenous over his food—somehow being in this fucking stupid hospital was just draining him of his energy.

Gavin hadn’t touched the eggs and bacon on his plate, nor the glass of milk in front of him. Geoff didn’t seem miffed today, just tired. The alcoholic was shaking all over and his face looked paler than the previous day, even. Jack sat beside Ray, just kind of staring down at his tray, zoned out.

Michael had elected to stay after he’d finished eating today. Ray had asked him to, and since he was the only fucking nice one (other than Kerry, of course), Michael decided to listen. Of course, Ray couldn’t order him around. Not a fucking chance. Michael was just listening to a suggestion—not even Ray could _really_ order him around.

“Gavin.” Geoff said, his voice disarmingly soft.

“No.” Gavin’s reply came firmly.

“You haven’t eaten in days, Gav. I don’t want you to collapse. ” The elder produced a long sigh. “Please?”

Gavin laid his head in his arms on the table, his shoulder blades far too sharp to be healthy.  Michael was starting to feel that stupid guilt again—he’d called Gavin’s disorder stupid teen-girl shit before, but looking at him now was just… overwhelmingly sad. The Brit was eyeing the food like it was a weapon—and he was both defiant and afraid. “I can’t,” Came the muffled reply.

“Could you drink something? Please, this time? It’s not going to hurt you.” Jack’s voice entered the conversation.

“He’s right,” Geoff agreed. “I know it’s hard to have solid food anymore.” Gav glanced up, face gaunt and pallid. How many times had they failed to make him eat lately…? And anyways, what the hell were the doctors doing about Gavin? Ray had mentioned him having daily meetings with a certain therapist, but evidently things weren’t working.

Geoff stood up, hands on Gavin’s shoulders, massaging gently. His hands were shaking, probably from withdrawal symptoms—rather, his tattooed arms were, as his hands were anchored on Gavin. Michael was too gripped to say anything. “Please.” Geoff’s voice cracked, and the tone made Ryan’s shoulders tighten from where he laid on the table.

Gavin reached out and took the glass of milk, raising it slightly off the tray.

Ray looked up now, eyes hopeful, and Jack was the same. Geoff goading—“That’s it, buddy. Just a glass of milk.”

Michael inspected Gavin’s face very carefully now—his lips were slightly pinched together, his eyebrows knit. His eyes were squinted, as if he were so nervous he couldn’t even look—but everyone else’s eyes were on him. The hand holding the glass was unsteady as he brought it closer to him. Michael could swear he could hear Gavin just saying, ‘I can’t do it,’ and putting it down, but he was still holding it there. It felt like an eternity before the rim of it hit his lips.

It was another small eternity before he tipped the glass—one where Ray was leaning forward in his chair and Geoff was trying to lean around him to see if he was actually drinking it—but eventually Gav took a long, slow sip. As soon as it hit his tongue, his stomach growled loudly.

A noise let loose from him—kind of a moan. It must’ve tasted so good after not having anything for so long. Everyone collectively exhaled as Gav swallowed it.

It was really strange for Michael to watch someone drink and be happy about it—drinking felt normal for him. Hell, today he’d been so fucking hungry he’d chugged his milk in one go. But this felt sacred, because Geoff was breathing easy as Gav swallowed another mouthful.

He made it halfway through the glass before he had to put it down, and despite that, Ryan had lifted his head off the table and making an effort to smile. A whole plate of eggs and bacon sat before Gavin, but the six of them celebrated the half glass of milk missing.

For the first time, Michael witnessed everyone standing up, disposing of their trays. He was so absorbed in Gavin rousing Ryan from his nap that he almost forgot to dispose of his own.

* * *

 

It was later in the day—just a while before lunch, really, and Michael was asking Ray a bit more about himself.

The two of them were sitting on their respective beds across from each other, Michael lounging back on his pillow and Ray with his back to the wall, facing him. The yellow light from the lamp made everything a dingy, sticky white color. Michael stared at the ceiling absently, wishing there was a window to look out of at least, if not something else interesting to do.

Ray had asked him to go to the game room again, and he’d declined again. Although this time, Ray stayed behind to talk to him instead of going with the rest of them. Michael remembered parting ways in the hall—Geoff’s hand on around Gavin’s shoulders casually, confused on why Ray would stay behind. Michael guessed the five of them were really as close as they seemed.

Now they were just sitting here talking like a couple of assholes—like a couple of bored assholes.

“So, you live in Austin, right?” Michael questioned.

Ray shrugged. “Yeah, I live in Austin, but I’m originally from New York.”

“Oh, so we’re both east coast, huh. NYC or just the state?”

“The city,” Ray distinguished. “My mom moved down here for better schools. I think she was sick of city life, too. New York is fucking expensive.”

Michael laughed. “I can believe that. Even Jersey was less fucking expensive than NYC, and this bullshit is cheaper than both.”

“Yeah. We ran into some financial stuff and she just came into the kitchen one day and said, ‘How do you feel about moving to Texas?’” Ray shrugged, so Michael guessed he didn’t want to leave New York. He’d felt the same way about New Jersey, originally.

“So were the schools actually better, or was it just the money stuff? Believe me, I fucking know about the money stuff too. You don’t have to pussyfoot around that shit with me.”

“Hell no. I fucking hate school, dude.” Ray said. It caught Michael off guard.

“What was so fucking bad about it? Texas schools are so much fucking better than Jersey schools, let me tell ya’.”

“No. I’m just leaving it at school is fucking awful. I’m never going back,” Ray snapped.

Michael’s brows knit together. “You can’t just not fucking go to school. You’re gonna have to go back at some point. I mean—”

“Dude, _shut up_! I don’t wanna talk about it!”

Michael’s head snapped up. You don’t fucking tell Michael Jones to shut up— _I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you_ —the thoughts he hadn’t heard in a while were back all of a sudden. His expression must have shifted, because Ray shrunk back. Michael’s hands clenched and unclenched, his eyes watching Ray fiddle with his stress ball, suddenly back to his anxious self.

This was one of those fits that had been itching under his skin since he got here. At home, he had them a lot when nothing went his way—sometimes for no reason at all. The fits were sometimes mild—he would just take his anger out on something material, and no real harm was done other than some puncture marks on something in his room. However, more often than not, they were out of control. His mother was threatened more than enough to be reasonable to call the police—Michael was bigger than her, or at least stronger, and could probably do what he said—if his thoughts ever fully took over, of course. He’d done more significant damage to things like his bedframe and his wall—his sheets were all torn and sometimes bloody from harming himself accidentally in one of his fits. It was constantly there, boiling under the surface. He was constantly suffering violent scenes in his head.

There was only so much he could stomach when it came to talking to people, so much he could take.

 _Shut up_ was one of those particularly angering phrases he’d heard so many times—when he yelled in a store, his mother told him _shut up._ When he turned up his music it was always _shut up._ When someone asked his mother about his fits—it was always just _shut up. I’ll handle this._ It whipped him back into thinking about hurting—

“Fuck, whatever,” Michael snarled. He stood up from the bed, and Ray’s expression was indignant. He’d just go to the lounge. Fuck this; it wasn’t worth destroying his own room.

Was he really intent on destroying it? He asked himself that question— and he was leaning towards the idea that he wouldn’t have done it. But why? Was it Ray’s presence, his embarrassment at his explosive fits?

Was it that he had the intention of getting better, or that he wanted to let it build up in him and get worse?

* * *

He didn’t want to go to the lunchroom. Useless people were always hanging out in there unless it was after dinner, when it got shut down. He wanted to go somewhere that people wouldn’t look at him. And he certainly couldn’t go to the game room—that’s where assholes one through four would be, the whole crew minus Ray. (And himself? Did he count himself?)

That’s how he ended up in the lounge again. The stupid clacking of the lady on the computer’s fake nails hitting the keys, the door creaking as it shut, and Kerry sitting on the same couch he was yesterday, probably reading the same dumb book, too.

The room looked no different from the last time he was there—the paper covering the windows on the doors, the green couches moved to face each other, the bookshelves filled with approved reading and the shitty beige color of the walls. Even the lighting was exactly the same—no windows to change the look at different times of day.

The lad barely looked up at him when he walked in, too engrossed in the book to pay proper fucking attention to Michael. The redhead sat down on Kerry’s couch, absently pulling at the fabric of his sweatpants, waiting for Kerry to acknowledge him.

When he finally did, the boy closed his book, set it down, and looked up to meet Michael’s eyes. “What’s got you so upset?”

“I’m not fucking upset!”  Michael snapped.

There was a beat. Michael knew Kerry heard the bite to his voice, and that proved him wrong. Even just his bristliness proved Michael wrong—Kerry knew as soon as he walked in that he was angry, because he was always angry. “Do you wanna get a book, or…? I can just chill out here if you want.” Kerry’s voice was tentative. Michael couldn’t even respond, his muscles clenching up, curling him into a ball at the corner of the sofa. He stared at his knees while Kerry waited.

Michael just didn’t want to talk. Everything about the last few days had been upsetting—he didn’t want to eat because of all the assholes bothering him in the cafeteria, he wasn’t used to the sleeping schedule, and he just fucking wanted his Xbox, for god’s sake.  Ray was being difficult now, and it was over a subject as stupid as _school._ That was a piece of cake in Texas, what an ass.

Eventually Kerry just started to read to him, his quiet voice the only sound in the room except the _tap tap tap_ of the keyboard in the corner. He thought it was nice, hearing Kerry’s voice emanating around the space.

He wasn’t really listening to the words, anyway. Just the voice.

Somehow he started to think about what Ray must’ve thought of the whole thing. He says some shit and Michael, anger management fucker, storms out of the room in a flurry of rage. What a busta’. He probably looked stupid.

He was feeling guilt again. Guilt was a familiar but usually pretty short lived emotion—this was always a phase of one of those fits. There was no real _fit_ this time, though. He didn’t cause the physical damage to anything this time—there was no drywall to stab, no Xbox to vent on.

Ray was probably feeling like shit. He was already kinda fragile—Ray had his stupid anxiety shit and everything, and Michael didn’t deserve the ‘roommate of the year _’_ award right now. He should probably go apologize if he wasn’t planning on getting the ‘biggest piece of shit of the year’ award.

That’s as far as he let Kerry read to him, standing up and leaving the room without a word. The lad stared in his wake, voice trailing off on whatever word he’d paused on.

* * *

 

When he arrived back to the room, he stood outside for a minute, trying to work up the nerve to just open the shitty door anyways. His hand hovered over the knob for several minutes, eyes trained on it and breath measured.

The moment Michael opened it, his eyes scanned the room to find it empty.

What the hell? Ray wasn’t in his bed, and the stress ball was sitting right there on the sheets. He wasn’t in the lunchroom or anything—when they’d been talking earlier, Ray had said he wasn’t going to go back. Maybe he just changed his mind, Michael thought, before he turned around—

The bathroom.

Each room had two beds, two dressers and a nightstand, as well as a small adjoining bathroom to go along with it. He hadn’t even gone in there more than once, since there really wasn’t much in there. Just a toilet and a shallow, shallow sink. No towels or anything, just a roll of generic brand TP. This door was closed—something he hadn’t seen of it before.

Maybe he was just in the bathroom taking a shit or something. Michael hated to be a creep but he hadn’t seen Ray go in there before—it was weird. But even he had to at some point, so whatever. He walked to his bed, sitting down and flopping onto his back. He let out a deep breath and sagged into the mattress, waiting for the inevitability of Ray coming out here and planning what he was going to say—

Only, after ten minutes of waiting, Michael’s mind was whirring. Ray probably wasn’t doing what he’d originally thought… He got up, propping on one elbow and heaving upwards. The mattress was comfortable if you hated yourself enough to stay stiff all the time. Stepping across the room, he moved his hand to open the door—it didn’t take him as long to get himself to open this door—he was already convinced about it, going to apologize to Ray.

As his hand made contact with the simple copper-colored doorknob, a voice inside asked, “Michael?” It was Ray’s voice, small and nervous.

“Yeah,” He rasped, curious.

“D-don’t come in. Leave me alone.” Ray stuttered. It sounded funny behind the door, muffled and muted.

Well, of fucking course he’s not going to do that. Michael said he would fucking apologize, that’s what he’s going to do. His hand clamped tighter on the copper knob, turning it—pushing open the door—

The sight wasn’t welcome.

It was Ray, sitting on the toilet seat, holding a safety pin. He was gouging his arms with it, pushing hard into the skin and drawing blood—a lot of blood. There were probably twenty scrapes and scratches already, Ray in the process of adding more red inflamed cuts. The pin itself was beaded with blood—his ruthlessness was evident.

“What the _fuck_!? Ray, _what the hell_!” Michael yelled, the sound making the younger flinch hard. He failed to think ahead on that one. Yelling makes Ray upset, Michael was here to apologize. Wait, what was he even thinking? Ray was hurt. Even more, he was hurting _himself._ Like the teenage girls Michael was making fun of before. Ray’s hand was shaking, holding the pin tightly.

 “Shut the door! Please, don’t say anything!” Ray begged, his eyes full ofpanic.

“Ray, oh my _god,_ what the fuck!” He wasn’t angry about this, just _shocked_ more than anything—it was just his vocab, swear on it. But he _sounded_ angry.

The younger burst into tears.

He was crying with panic and his arms were shaking so hard. He’d dropped the safety pin on the floor, and it bounced once before settling on the tile. Blood smeared from it, whatever had been left on the cool metal. More and more blood streamed down Ray’s arms. He tried to work words out through his tears. “P-please, sh-shut the doo-oor, plea—Michael!”

The redhead obeyed, for once, closing it and pressing his palms to it behind him. “Ray, calm down, I’m sorry, just calm down—”

The Puerto Rican hissed through his teeth, trying to narrow his breathing and get it under control. Heavy tears rolled down his cheeks, and beads of blood rolled down his arms. Michael realized he needed to wash it, but the sink was probably too shallow to place Ray’s arms in it. He shushed the boy, stepping away from the door and taking the toilet paper roll in hand. He pulled a long piece, wadded it up, and dampened it in the sink. Ray was fighting to control his breathing as he lightly squeezed some of the water out.

He knew Ray wasn’t going to like him touching his arms, but it was absolutely necessary. This was damage control. If Michael was good at anything, it was damage control. “Shh, calm down, Ray, it’s okay…” He snatched Ray’s hand, pressing the cloth to the spot that looked the bloodiest.

Ray made a noise louder than was wise. His shock at the pressure on his wounds was terrible, and his crying was renewed. Michael’s mind wanted him to just walk away, but instead he patted the damp toilet paper, lifting it and putting it onto another bloody, shredded patch of skin.

Ray had managed to do a lot of damage. It was almost like he’d done this before.

Michael was just about to start the other arm when there were three rapt knocks on the door. “Hello? Who’s in there, are you alright?” The voice was a polite nurse, the one that’d woken him up all those times, probably. She was the one who would check up on the patients in this hallway during the evening—she must’ve shown up early.

The crying was still audible, so it was impossible to lie now.

“We’re fine! It’s all fucking fine,” Michael claimed, dismissing her as if it would work. The nurse started to open the door, and Michael made a split decision. He dropped Ray’s arm, letting the now bloody toilet paper fall to the ground, and slammed into the door, shutting it again. “Uh, we’re indecent! Shit, just leave us alone!” There was no lock—he couldn’t leave it unattended—

“Hey!” The nurse called from outside, pushing back on it. Michael held the door closed more firmly in response.

“D-d-don’t come i-in!” Ray cried. He knew he could hold it, being stronger and physically bigger than her—but suddenly he was faced with a choice.

He could open the door, let the nurse in. He could get Ray help for this—the kid was an absolute mess, his face slick with tears and eyes red and puffy behind his glasses.

Or, he could keep it closed. He could lock his muscles and protect Ray—and keep his trust. If he opened it right now, would Ray ever trust him again?

“Let me in right now, alright? What’s going on? Open the door, Michael!” The nurse yelled frantically. She pushed on the door, the weight making Michael shift, but not give in.

Ray’s shaking hands picked up the toilet paper, trying to clean up his arms, showing off plenty of scars under the fresh bloody layer—it was a lot more cuts than he’d thought before. Probably about forty scratches—deep ones—laid on the surface of Ray’s skin.

Someone else had heard the yelling. The pushing on the door stopped for a moment, and both of the boys heard the tapping of running footsteps. Some sharp words were spoken outside the door.

Right then, their eyes met. Ray’s tear-filled, pain-stricken ones and Michael’s shocked yet determined ones—and then there were two people pushing against the door. Michael braced his feet on the tile as hard as he could, but it was no use.

He was thrown to the floor as the door opened violently, the nurse from before and a male nurse he’d never seen before running inside. They didn’t even glance at him once they saw Ray—he was left sitting on the tile as the male nurse grabbed the Puerto Rican—whose sobbing was renewed once more—by the collar of his t-shirt.

And then Ray was gone. And Michael was alone there, sitting on the floor, too upset to even begin to cry.

* * *

He walked back into his room, feeling drained.

Michael’s therapist had torn him apart. That asshole pointed out every single thing wrong with him, everything wrong about what Michael had done when he was trying to protect Ray from people like him. He said _you’re disrupting Ray’s healing process_. Fuck off, fuck off! Just fuck off! The healing process isn’t scratching the hell out of your arms with a safety pin. It’s not whatever Ray was doing. It’s not whatever the fuck you told him to do, dickwad.

The pin had still been on the floor when Michael was sitting there—it felt heavy in his pocket. It felt taboo. However easy to hide it was, it was still dangerous for him, probably.

He didn’t want to think about the therapist anymore. His limbs were so heavy and he just wanted to slump into that comforting soft mattress again—he stepped towards it, expecting it—

“Hey.” Ray greeted. Michael hadn’t noticed Ray was there, sitting on his bed, hoodie back on and stress ball in hand. His arms were likely bandaged under those sleeves—he was holding them tenderly, like they still ached from the raw, cutting feeling.

He turned that way—“Hey. How are you feeling?” Michael asked. Ray shrugged. There was a moment between them, a pause in which Michael stood there in the middle of the room, just looking at his roommate. “So… is that what you meant when you said you’re here for anxiety ‘ _among other things’_?”

Ray nodded. He sighed deeply, arms clearly stiff from the bandages. He’d been rushed to the infirmary—it was probably horrible for him to be dragged through the halls, practically paraded in front of everyone, bloody scrapes adorning his arms and no hoodie to cover them up for once. The first time Michael ever saw Ray without the purple hoodie had been when he was covered in blood. “Come here, sit over here with me.”

He sat on the bed next to Ray, their legs brushing against each other.  There was a moment of a more comfortable silence, them just reeling in the wake of the day, appreciating each other’s support. Ray spoke out of the silence, “Thank you. For trying to keep the nurses out.” He took a pause. “I know it was bad of me but… I’m so glad you were the one to find me first. I was so scared.”

“If it scares you, why do it?” Michael asked quietly. He learned that Ray was an anger black hole now—his protective instinct for his roommate was much stronger.

“I don’t know. It itches. I ache for it, and it helps get rid of the itch. But each itch I scratch brings a new one.”

Michael didn’t reply, just wrapped his arm around Ray’s shoulders, pulling him closer. He felt like it was the only appropriate response—there wasn’t a lot he could reply to that with. Maybe that he was the same—each one of his fits was satisfying, it let him breathe smoothly again, but it always lead to one that was more serious. Each time he got angrier. Each time he got more dangerous, more volatile and more violent. Each itch he scratched brought a new itch.

The nurse came in, eyes cast dark as she looked over the two of them. “Lights out.” She said, her voice monotone. She looked like she wanted to say something to Michael about getting in his own bed, but instead she just put her key in the light switch socket, turning off the lights for the night, and left.

They laid down together, facing each other in the bed and studying each other’s faces. Ray was more tired and pale than Michael remembered seeing him before. He didn’t realize Ray was thinking something along the same lines—today had been stressful for him too.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning.” Said Ray, voice seeming a little too loud.

Michael sputtered. “Y-you’re fucking joking? I was coming to apologize for that when I came back—I was being an asshole. I’m trying to be better.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re an asshole, yeah, but you’re a good person. They’re not the same thing.” Ray’s face was coming into view as his eyes adjusted, the hint of a smile shone in the darkness.

“I’m…” Michael was at a loss. “Thanks. Thank you.”

 It was nice to be able to say that without reserve after so long. It was so nice to have someone who genuinely cared about him. He cared about Ray a lot, too, despite his outward expression.

This felt normal. Laying here with Ray was more casual than anything else—they’d spent so much time sitting here talking, and he’d never really clicked with someone as much as he clicked with Ray. Maybe it was this fucking hospital—it could just be the shared crazy that their brains had. But he’d gotten so upset about someone else’s pain earlier—why couldn’t Ray just be fucking healthy? Why did he want to hurt himself—? The now-clean safety pin clipped to the inside of his pants felt colder and heavier.

He wanted to make Ray better.

Michael’s hands slid up, cupping Ray’s face, something taking over him— He leaned in, pressing his chapped lips to the other’s. The kiss was brief and chaste, but rough.

Ray pushed him away, a sharp breath drawing in, and Michael realized that he might have just fucked it all up. “Michael,” Ray gasped, a hand pulled up to cover his mouth.

“Fuck. I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.” He made to sit up, his leg falling over the edge of the bed in preparation to stand—but Ray grabbed his wrist with a light touch.

“Wait. N-no, It’s not that. I mean, I like you, Michael. I like you a lot,” Ray tried to clarify. Michael’s expression shifted, the panic that had settled in the pit of his stomach churning up once more. Was it that he was too quick? Too fucked up in the head?

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

Ray let go of his wrist. “I…” he paused. “I can’t tell you. I just… can’t right now.”

Michael stood from the bed fully now, stance defensive even if Ray couldn’t see it fully. “You… can’t tell me. That’s bullshit, I’m going to bed.” He turned, taking the one stride needed and nearly throwing himself down. Too fucked up in the head. You’re too fucked up.

“Michae—”

“I’m going to bed.”

Fuck.


End file.
